The Philosopher
by M.C. Griffin
Summary: A story of one person's life beyond the binds of normality. A person who broke the chains of society and law in favor of a life of crime and turmoil.


(Note: I do not share the opinions of the characters in this story. I am simply telling a story through the perspective of a philosophical criminal, these are not my philosophies. I oppologise ahead of time for whatever spelling errors. This is typed at work on WordPad so I don't currently have access to such luxuries as spell check)  
  
Our country's economy is strictly based on two things: Consumers and "providers". Those who sell, and those who buy. This system seems to work for any given economy. Some find themselves disenfranchized by this system. They don't want their existance boiled down to a simple bi-product of a consumer based society. They want to be free of their "providers". They want to lose their dependency on these corporations, these industrial gods.  
  
I do not have to complain about these things though. I have transcended. Never again will I walk the halls of malls filled with downtrawden citizens and recycled ventalation. Never again will I make a stroll down town looking to hawk or sell something stupid so I can buy something else stupider. Never again will I sell my soul for a nine to five just to justify my existance to those who have the nerve to ask "so, what do you do?".  
  
No more taxes!  
  
No more bills!  
  
I have abandoned that existance!  
  
I have transformed!  
  
I have evolved!  
  
I am better!  
  
I am advanced!  
  
I am the single consumer and they are the providers!!!  
  
If I want something, I take it. If I don't like somebody I threaten. Sometimes I kill. If I buy something from you, you better beleive its stolen money. If I drive by your house, you better believe its a stolen car. If I hold a gun to your temple, you better respect the fact that I had to kill a man to get it.  
  
I scream all of this as I roll down the thin road of a suburban neighborhood in my stolen vintage taxi cab. My yells give goose bumps and shudders to mothers and fathers. They don't look away right away. There is a moment that they simply contemplate the impact of my words. Children listen to me, with images of violent video games and action movies dancing in their heads, hanging off of every one of my words. Maybe one day that one little boy that listened the hardest will be the next to follow my philosophy. Maybe ten years from now we'll find ourselves shooting at each other. Maybe one day this little boy, inspired by my ideals, will try to steal from me. Consume me.  
  
I stop the taxi in front of one of these onlooking children, drooling on himself with a stuffed dinasour by his side. I tell 'im "you can never get to the top of the ladder of power." I tell 'im "there will always be someone else to kill so you will never get bored." I tell 'im "don't be afraid to take jobs and follow orders. Killing is not the only way to enterprise, unless it is convenient or necessary." I tell 'im "you should always make sure your connected, but never sell your soul to anybody."  
  
He whipes the saliva off of his lip and says "You're cool mister."  
  
"Thanks." I say, remembering my own days of innocence.  
  
"I have a dinosaur." he said through spit bubbling onto his chin as he held up his stuffed animal.  
  
The door to his pricey suburban home swung open and a woman with a business dress, a stress filled face and a very noticable ruby pendant around her neck came stepping down her drive way to tell me to leave.  
  
I looked down to the kid, winked and said, "Now, I want you to pay attention to how I do this."  
  
The kid whiped his mouth and nodded again as his mother stepped up to the shot out window of my cab. She bent down, about to speak, trying to see more than my shoulder through the shot out window.  
  
Without hint or preview, I shot my hand through the hole in my window and grabbed the pendant from around her neck and began to drive away. It only took her a few feet down the road to finally release her precious jewelry. I looked into my rear view mirror to see her trying to read my license plate. There is no license plate on my cab. I'm not retarded.  
  
The kid was waving goodbye to me.  
  
I looked at the pendant on its thick chain and wondered how these things became so important in everyone's eyes. Just rocks. Minerals. Nothing is as perfect or valuable as you can believe. Its all temporary. These people buy these things, cars, jewelry, and they think that they'll last forever. That they'll be a consistant. They held on to these things on an emotional level. As if its the only thing that will make them happy.  
  
A long time ago, I was the same way. Had a nice home, okay job. There was all kinds of things filling the spaces between my breaths that made my life seem working. TV, stereo, DVD, Playstation 2. These things would make me smile as they entertained me like I was some sort of king. Sounds, sights, sensations, then one day.  
  
It was all gone.  
  
Looted, I was looted. The police contacted me at my office to tell me that my house was set on fire. When I got there they told me I had been robbed and my house was set on fire. Later, they told me I had been robbed and my house was set on fire and there was no evidence.  
  
My money, my house, and all my worldly shit was just gone for someone else to enjoy. They were fucking geniuses. I don't hold any value in anything anymore. I'll wreck my car, 'cause I can steal another. I'll never wash my clothes 'cause there's always clean clothes at the lawndromat. I'll spend money quickly, because everyone has a wallet.  
  
You want to know how to get a lot of cash quick? Run over a pimp.  
  
First, you gotta find one. That's easy enough. Look for the guy dressed in seventies throw back clothing with leopard skin clad girls hanging around. Wait for him to be out in the open. You don't want to hit anyone else, so make sure he's isolated, you don't want too many people to have a reason to catch you, kill someone else and that person will have just as many-if not more-loved ones that would want you dead. Once he's hit, go search him for his gun, he may be dazed or unconscious but he doesn't have to be dead, just make sure he can't kill you. His wallet, or any cash he might have, should be near the gun. The only thing left to do is drive away.  
  
I must have done this, like, five times in one day. Once in front of a cop. I scored about $5,500 plus two .22s, a magnum, a shotgun, and an uzi. I spent the money on martial arts lessons for a year.  
  
Life is cheap. This amulet is cheap. Money has no worth. The only thing with any value is your hand and its five fingers. You drive the wheel. You pull the trigger. This tool was given to you for free, so fucking use it. All you need to use it to its full potential is your will to take.  
  
I got a page.  
  
555 3825  
  
Shit!  
  
It was Skapelli. A mob lieutennent from the Romello crime family. Not a mother's man, this fucker kills and dies for the mob. No family but the family. No friends but his fellow gangsters. A real thug and a real hard ass. My current employer.  
  
I was supposed to check in with him today. Instead I rode around suburbia, preaching my philosophies all day.  
  
I have to be careful with this mob stuff. When dealing with guys like Skapelli or any other family man, you can't get too close, but you can never tell 'im no. Take too many jobs, be too faithful, you'll get in too thick. Your affiliations become so strong that they bind you like chains to the mafia. Refuse when you're already good with them and they'll kill ya. Fertalise a parking lot with ya just 'cause your disloyal.  
  
My advice is to let them come to you. Don't ask for work, just wait for it.  
  
I hadn't been waiting very long. I had already done plenty of driver jobs for Skapelli, but I'm getting somewhat tired of the man's tactics. His idea of subtely is six men with ausalt rifles and full body armor in a bullet proof truck.  
  
Oh well, at least workin' for this guy I get to ride around in a car like that.  
  
It was a lovely mid afternoon on a holy sunday as I drove through downtown in minimal traffic. All the places were still open so I could drive like an ass and not have to worry about much traffic.  
  
The thugs. Civilians. Weasels. I IDed everyone I passed. It can get that easy after a while. When I first lost my house, started this lifestyle, I couldn't tell a gangster from an ice cream man. Now I know that a lot of the ice cream men are gangsters. Those trucks are low profile. Innocence is the best disguise.  
  
When I first saw Skapelli I thought he was just your average power tool salesman.  
  
I pulled up to Razorback Power Tool Manufacture. Skapelli's place of "business". I walked through the main office. Down the hall which smelled like shit from the open bathroom. Through the warehouse area, bussling with fork lifts and various other noises. Out into the back lot, housing various trucks and other vehicles. Into the back office. Skapelli's office.  
  
The big gorilla was sitting at his desk with his feet up, the cigar portruding from his mouth giving the room a slight gray haze. Two of his companions played pool at his pool table. The big ass could definitely afford such frivilous spending. My philosophy had always been to deny such leisures for they might become necesity, but with an addiction like worldly possesions the only side effect is an economic one, and Skapelli didn't need to worry about that.  
  
"When did I tell you to come in Alex?"  
  
"Noon"  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"4:30"  
  
"Where the fuck were you?"  
  
"Sorry. Won't happen again."  
  
He took his feet off of the desk and leaned in close to my face. Cigar smoke lofted up my nose but I held the choke back.  
  
"Have a seat Alex."  
  
I sat in the uncomfortable folding chair. He had it, basically, to belittle his clients in his large, comfy, leather chair.  
  
"You've been comin' up real fast kid. Drivin' jobs don't seem to fit your full range of talents."  
  
"I don't follow, sir."  
  
"I talked to Jerry last week. 'Told me after Jacky got wasted you picked up the slack. 'Said you could run n' gun with the best of 'em."  
  
"Let me be humble, sir. There was three other men, all equally well armed. Plus an under-equipped police squad. The odds were in my favor."  
  
"You callin' Jerry a liar."  
  
"No sir."  
  
An uncomfortable pause.  
  
"Listen... I'm givin' you a hit."  
  
"A kill job sir? You think I'm good enough?"  
  
"Weren't any other guys available and I think you got the trigger skill for it. He's well armed and well staffed but I don't think it'll be a problem for someone of your track expeirience... you interested?"  
  
I looked around at the surrounding haze. The men playing pool. The nauvalty artwork. The torn, flowered wallpaper.  
  
"So...?" I asked. "Who's the job?"  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


End file.
